


Sea of Love

by elospock



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Elio needs a hug, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fix-It, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Oliver needs a hug, POV Elio Perlman, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:00:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17050943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elospock/pseuds/elospock
Summary: A phone call, somewhere in Italy in the mid-eighties. But what if it had been a slightly different one?Fix-it for the movie's ending, with a little angst, a lot of fluff, and all the love.Tying to the movie, but very much inspired by the prose and narration of the book.





	Sea of Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jemdetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemdetta/gifts).



> Greetings, Yuletide friend! O tidings of comfort and joy, because this is a little story, full of fix-it and fluff! I hope it will bring you as much joy as it did to me while I was writing it.
> 
> A few notes :
> 
> * In order to keep with the movie’s spirit, I decided to keep some French and Italian in the text. French is my first language, so it came easy, but my Italian is pretty rudimentary, so if you speak it better than I do, please let me know if what I wrote makes sense!
> 
> * In order to keep with the book’s spirit, I kept Elio’s POV.
> 
> * The first part is mostly a transcript of the movie (the parts I took verbatim from the movie are italicised).
> 
> *I feel it's important for me to mention that in this fic, Elio's birthday was in the fall, so he is 18 at the time of the events taking place in this story.
> 
> * I was listening to Cat Power’s version of Sea of Love while I was writing this, and I couldn’t help but relate its quiet happiness and nostalgia to Call Me By Your Name, so this is where the title and a little of the feelings in this come from.
> 
> *Happy Yuletide!*

Sea of Love

 *

_“Elio? Are you there?”_

It was him.

It was his voice.

It was Oliver.

I was in shock, and in awe. Was it possible that I was not dreaming, and that I was really hearing his voice, after months of being deprived from it? And yet, it was unmistakable; I could have made out his particular intonations, the words he was speaking, the way he said Elio, out of a bustling crowd. Years later, when I would think of Oliver, I would always remember the way he said my name, like it was precious and incandescent; no matter how cold he was acting, no matter how aloof and distant, no matter how long it had been, he could never hide from my name; it was always filled with the repressed passion, quiet wonder, burning adoration his kisses had been filled with; so every time he spoke my name it was like a kiss from across the years, forlorn, formidable, unforgettable.

I had rehearsed what I would tell him when he’d inevitably call a thousand times, in a thousand different ways; sometimes, I was pretending not to know him, until he became so flummoxed and annoyed that he was on the verge of hanging up; some other times, I wasn’t saying anything, I was just breathing in the receiver—knowing he could hear it, knowing he would understand my most minute inflexions—and we would stay there for hours, breathing together, connected from opposite sides of the world, and not caring about the astronomical costs of international calls, and the frankly silly luxury of hogging both our parents’ landlines for an unreasonable amount of time; some other times, I was acting all cold and distant, to spur him into admitting how empty and boring his life without me was; sometimes I was crying, begging him to come back; sometimes I was just friendly, and we would discuss his thesis, his students, his life in New York, so far from mine.

And yet, right now, they all seemed to have vanished from my mind, and I was only able to utter an underwhelming, _“Hi!”_

 _“Hey!”_ he replied, and I could hear the thrill in his voice, mirroring mine.

 _“How are you?”_ I blurted, happiness seeping through my voice against my will.

 _“I’m good! I’m good. How are you? How are your parents?”_ he asked casually, though I knew from his tone that he was smiling ear to ear.

 _“I’m good, they’re fine,”_ I interjected, interrupting him in my impatience to hear more about him.

 He chuckled. _“Good.”_

There was a short pause, as we lay basking in each other’s heightened proximity. “ _I miss you,_ ” I added before I could talk myself out of saying it.

For one unbearable moment, I thought he was not going to say anything; that we was going to go on as though I hadn’t just bared my soul and vulnerability to him, ignoring me like he used to do at the breakfast table, before inevitably saying his signature ‘Later’. Was he going to pretend nothing had happened between us? Had he forgotten? Had he moved on? I held my breath.

 _“I miss you too. Very much,”_ he uttered quietly, in his usual deep sotto voce. I shivered, picturing him in front of me, and how his lips would form the words, how his eyes would sparkle with a mix of humour and something deeper, how his hands would cup my face like I was one of the long lost statues of Adonis he was so fond of.

 _“I have some news,”_ he continued.

I froze. _“N… news?”_

My mind was racing; so many possibilities, so many opportunities, so much dread, so much hope. But in my heart, I knew what people usually meant by ‘news’. I wanted to whisper to Oliver, _You’ll kill me if you stop_ , before he could say his piece, a reminder of our time together, while there was still this precious moment of uncertainty, this quantum instant during which all the possibilities, all the opportunities coexist, before they inevitably collapse into alternate realities, each in a different one; different versions of Oliver and me living different stories in a myriad of different worlds.

 _“Oh you’re getting married,”_ I snorted with false cheer. I hesitated, sobering up a little. _“ I suppose.”_

I hoped, like I had scarcely hoped before, that I was wrong, that he wasn’t indeed getting married at all.

Oh, how stupid I was, how mistaken. I could feel my heart breaking in my chest, taking with it the glorious days of summer that were forever engraved in my mind. I could feel my eyes welling up, the tears mounting, soon irrepressible; I pushed them down my throat as hard as I could; I wouldn’t crack, I wouldn’t fall, I wouldn’t let him see the pain he was causing me. Woe is me, I wanted to yell; and full of woe I was. I wanted to remind him of how he kissed me in Rome, with people nearby who could have discovered us at any moment; I wanted to remind him of that first night where our naked bodies converged in the double twin beds of my old room, which became and is now forever Oliver’s; I wanted to cry and talk of Monet’s Berm, and of that story with the Knight and the Princess. ‘Is it better to speak or die?’ I wanted to scream. Oliver. Oliver. Oliver. If not before, when? But if not now, when?

If not later, when? Never?

“Don’t be absurd,” I heard him say on the other end of the line. I held my breath again, hoping he would either quell my hope for good or enflame it further. I was too fragile for games, far too anxious for wordplay; I needed the truth, I needed certainty, no matter the outcome. My mind was running faster than he could speak; and speak, I needed him to, lest I die from his continued silence.

“When would I have had the time?” he joked. Oh, he knew, the bastard knew what he had just put me through. He had done it on purpose.

I cleared my throat, trying to regain a semblance of composure. “What news then?”

“Can’t you guess?” he teased.

“Basta, Oliver, just tell me!” I exclaimed.

Laughing a little, he let a contented sigh. “I have been offered a tenure,” he announced. “In _Oxford_ , Elio, can you imagine?”

I could hear the exhilaration seeping through his words; I couldn’t help but burst out laughing, suddenly giddy. Oliver was not getting married, Oliver was not moving on, Oliver was not indifferent. _“Oliver, that’s wonderful news!”_

 _“Do you mind?”_ he asked abruptly. Did I mind? Did _I_ mind? Did I _mind_? Did I mind that Oliver got his dream job in his dream university? Before I could fully process the information, my parents interrupted our conversation.

 _“Why aren’t you here? When are you coming?”_ asked my mother.

 _“You caught us while in the process of choosing the new you for next summer…”_ added my father.

_“And he is a she!”_

Oliver humored them and laughed goodnaturedly. _“Well, I have some news for you._ I got offered a tenure. _”_

 _“Oh, Oliver that’s wonderful!”_ replied my mother, while my father commented a heartfelt _“Mazel Tov!”_

 _“Darling,”_ interjected my mother, _“we are going to let you speak with Elio now. Congratulations, again…”_

_“And Happy Hanukkah!”_

My parents hung up their receivers, granting us back a pretence of intimacy.

 _“They know about us…”_ I started, unsure of what to say, how to describe this ‘us’. Had there even been an ‘us’? Hadn’t it always been just him and I, Oliver and Elio, two parts of the same soul, reaching for each other? To form one, not ‘us’.

 _“I figured,”_ Oliver said, seemingly unruffled.

 _“How?”_ I was genuinely curious to know; though maybe, deep down, I knew he knew we hadn’t really been careful around the house, flashing ourselves and our passion to everyone around us like a beacon on a clear night.

 _“From the way your father spoke - he made me feel like a member of the family - almost like a son-in-law. You’re lucky. My father would have carted me off to a correctional facility._ He still might. _”_

We were silent for a while, like we used to do, lying on my bed, our bed, his bed for hours, tracing each other’s bodies with our fingers, our tongues, our thoughts. I wanted to ask if he remembered everything like I did, if he thought of me everytime he took a shower or looked out the window and imagined my shadow, like I did; I wanted to ask him if he remembered the taste of apricots under the burning midday sun, the acrid sharpness of the sea salt on his lips after a swim, the pungent smell of our sweating bodies cycling through the Italian landscape, the crisp coldness of the water that afternoon when I first chose to speak instead of dying; I wanted to ask if he remembered the first time he was in me, the first time he tasted me, the first time he came all over me, the first time he called me by his name, and so I murmured in the receiver, my voice raw and breaking from all the emotions, _“Elio, Elio...”_

I heard him inhale sharply, his breath quavering as he replied, so softly I almost didn’t hear it through the bad sound quality of the phone and the distance. _“Oliver, Oliver… I remember everything.”_

We stayed there, listening to each other’s voices whispering our own names for what seemed like hours, until my mother caught my eye and gestured towards the dining room.

“I have to go, we’re getting ready for dinner.”

He sighed. “I wish I could be there with you.”

“I wish you were too.”

“Maybe…” he started, hesitation clouding his voice.

“Maybe what?”

There was a long pause, as though Oliver was debating something.

“Maybe what, Oliver?” I insisted.

Suddenly, Oliver seemed to pull himself together and said, “Ich bitte euch ratet mir was besser ist...reden oder sterben? Is it better to speak or die?”

I was taken aback momentarily, but there would always only be one answer to that question. “Better to speak, my Knight.”

Like the princess in the story, I was on my guard again. What was going on in Oliver’s head? How like him to taunt me with the past, to reignite our connection, only to amend it five minutes later.

Oliver took a deep breath. “What if I told you that I am in Italy right now, with my parents?”

I stared at the wall in front of me, unable to comprehend the words Oliver just said. Surely, I misunderstood. Surely, my imagination was running wild. I was going crazy. It was the only explanation. It was much more logical than the alternative, that Oliver _was_ telling the truth.

“No. You can’t be. You are in New York. You can’t possibly be in Rome.”

He laughed. “Actually, I’m not currently in _Rome_.”

I rolled my eyes. Bastard. I huffed, trying to regain some dignity. “I knew it.”

He chuckled. “Aha, no, that’s not what I meant. We _were_ in Rome this morning, but we are now in Genova.”

I stared some more at the wall. The other shoe was going to drop any moment now. I looked over quickly at my parents, who were putting the table together for tonight’s dinner. I shook my head. “I can’t believe it, it’s impossible.”

Oliver cleared his throat, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I am currently calling from a train station very similar to the one where we last saw each other. I went to the bathroom earlier in Rome, in the very stall where we last kissed. I got hard just thinking of you there, just being back there. Right now, as I’m calling you, my dad is trying to buy the local newspaper while my mom is choosing postcards to send to her friends.”

I shook my head some more, as though trying to dispel what was sure to be a bittersweet dream. “You’re lying. It can’t possibly be true. I must be dreaming.”

Oliver snorted. “Well, the train is due to arrive in 10 minutes, and to leave in 15 minutes. How long do you think it will take for us to arrive in B.?”

It was true. It was all true. How could it be true? It was too good to be true, but I didn’t care right now. Oliver was in Genova. Oliver was coming here.

Oliver. Oliver. Oliver was coming back.

I laughed, though a bit hysterically this time. “Mafalda is going to be so mad at you.”

He snorted. “Nah, she’s not.”

No, she wouldn’t be; she would be thrilled, actually. She always had a soft spot for her precious Oliver.

I shook my head in disbelief. “So that was your grand plan? To drop by here unannounced, on the last night of Hanukkah, with your parents in tow? Calling to talk about some ‘news’ you have to share with us, making me think you’re getting married, when all this time, you were only a train ride away?”

He paused, as though pondering what I just said. “Well, yes, more or less.”

“And you were _not_ going to tell me or my parents about it?”

“It was supposed to be a surprise…” he said, though he had the decency to sound a bit sheepish now.

I pulled the receiver away from my head for a moment to call out to the rest of the house. “Maman! Maman! Viens ici, viens vite!” (Mom! Mom! Come here, come quick!)

“Elio? Ma cosa sta succedendo, mio piccino?” (Elio! But what’s going on, my little one?)

I smiled at her concerned face, taking one of her hands in mine. “Maman, you won’t believe it. Oliver et ses parents sont à Genova, ils s’en viennent ici! Ils attendent le train en ce moment même!” (Oliver and his parents are in Genova, they are coming here! They’re waiting for the train as we speak!)

My mother gaped at me. “No! Impossible!”

Alerted by the commotion, my father walked out of the dining room to join my mother and me in the corridor. “What’s this about? Elio? Annella?”

I looked over at my dad, unable to suppress a blinding smile. “Oliver and his parents are on their way!”

My mother took the receiver from my hand to bring it closer to her ear. “Oliver, is that true? Con i tuoi genitori? Qua?” (With your parents? Here?)

I could just make out the faint sound of Oliver’s reply, confirming what he told me. “Yes, Mrs. Perlman, it’s all true. I’m sorry, I realise now this is quite an imposition for you…”

My mother cut him up. “Basta! Elio, vai a dire a Mafalda di preparare la tua stanza! Dépêche-toi!” (Enough! Elio, go and tell Mafalda to prepare your room! Hurry up!)

I stepped out of the room, finding Mafalda in the dining room, looking startled. I told her everything that I knew and that Oliver told me, which she punctuated with exclamations and mocked disapproval, for good measure. She called Oliver ‘ _mio arrogante americano_ ’ over and over, raising her hands towards the ceiling in dramatic prayer, but she was smiling brightly; and I knew she was only too happy to indulge ‘her arrogant American’ once more. I went back in the corridor and grabbed the receiver from my mother’s hand, who was laughing at some joke Oliver told her.

My father looked from me to my mother, visibly happy, if overwhelmed. “But where are we going to put everyone?”

My mother brushed off his concerns. “We will take the room next to Elio’s, mio caro marito, and leave our room to Oliver’s parents. Oliver and Elio can bunk in Elio’s room, after all there are two twin beds in it…” She winked at me, before heading towards where Mafalda was standing near the staircase.

“Elio? Are you still there?”

I suddenly remembered that Oliver was still on the line. “Yes, yes, I am!”

“My mother wants to say hi…” he started, before being unceremoniously interrupted by a squeaky but warm voice, “Is that the famous Elio?” She was pronouncing Elio like an American, swallowing the ‘e’ with the ‘l’, and the ‘o’ almost like to form the sound ‘ow’.

I smiled as I imagined her, all proper, perfectly curled hair, eyes like Oliver’s. “Hi Mrs. Bilow, how are you doing?”

She seemed delighted by my good manners, and answered, “I’m good, my dear boy! Has my son told you of his plan?”

I tried, and failed, to repress a snort. “He has indeed, Mrs. Bilow.”

“Good, good,” she acquiesced. “I made him tell you, you know, I told him, ‘Oliver, you can’t just barge in people’s homes!’ even if you know them well, even if they have invited you to stay before. Don’t you agree, my dear?”

Her enthusiasm was endearing and contagious. “I can assure you, Oliver and his family will always be welcome here, Mrs. Bilow,” I reassured her. “Notre maison est votre maison.” (Our house is your house.)

“Oh please, you are like family now, call me Abigail,” she protested. “David, come here, David, come and say hi to Elio! I’ll pass you over to my husband, now, Elio, I’ll see you very soon! So good to meet you!”

“Hello?” a deep voice chimed in. It was strikingly similar to Oliver’s, only even deeper. I was shocked into silence, too disturbed to reply. “Is this the young Mr. Perlman?” Oliver’s father continued.

“It is, Mr. Bilow,” I finally blurted. I imagined Oliver’s dad like an older Oliver, maybe slightly taller, sterner somehow, but with the same mischievous glint in his eyes, the same striking features and pale hair.

“Hello dear boy,” he chirped. “I was told by someone it was always sunny in Italy, and here we are, in our winter coats, fighting off the cold wind and snow!”

I hummed, fighting the laughter building in my chest. “It seems you are out of luck, it rarely gets this cold here.”

He huffed in disapproval, but cheered on. “I must say, our Oliver is quite the schemer. But when he told us that you had just turned 18 in November, and that it would be a great surprise if we were to drop by to Italy before England, we couldn’t possibly say no. I daresay you are as surprised as you sound?”

I held my breath. So he _had_ remembered then. I had waited for days for a phone call, a letter, a gift, something, anything to come through the mail. A brief note had arrived two weeks after my birthday, apologising for the delay, wishing me many happy returns. I had been bitterly disappointed, but now I understood that it was all part of the plan—Oliver had probably known already he was going to get his tenure, and was making plans to come to Europe. The sneaky bastard. And here I had been, imagining the worst.

“Indeed I am, Mr. Bilow, sir.” That was always how characters referred to fathers in American novels, ‘sir’, even by their own sons; it seemed so formal and absurd, I couldn’t help but say it, I knew it was too much, that it was going to come out as equally arrogant, but I just couldn’t help but be a bit cheeky at this point. My dad threw me a look that was saying, ‘Now, now, behave, Elio’, but he was smiling too. “Let me put my dad on the phone,” I intoned, passing the receiver to my unsuspecting father.

He sighed, but took the phone anyway. “Hi, Mr. Bilow? Professor Perlman here. Yes, a pleasure to finally meet you. When do you think you will get here?”

I let my father take hold of the conversation and, on impulse, opened the french doors leading to the garden. A breath of cold air and snowflakes whirled into the corridor, ruffling my hair, but I didn’t care. I took a big heap of snow on the dining table and threw it in the air.

Oliver was coming, I kept telling myself. Oliver was coming back. I smiled at the fading light in the grey sky, smiling as the snow stuck to my shoes, my trousers, my shirt, my face. I looked at the house, at the living room window, through which I could see the fire burning. On the other side, my mother and Mafalda were fussing over the seating arrangement of the table, adding flowers, cutlery, plates in a flurry of Italian expletives.

My dad called me back from inside. “Elio, come back here a second, Oliver wants to talk to you.”

I waltzed back in, closing the doors behind me, leaving a trail of melted snow in my wake.

“What is it now, Oliver? You have another surprise?” I joked, half-serious.

He chuckled. “I do, but it’ll have to wait until we get here. I have to go now, the train in nearly there.”

I laughed. “Well, go on, then, you bastard! Va, mio arrogante americano. We’ll be waiting for you and your parents at the train station.”

He laughed. “Alright. I will see you very soon, Elio.”

I sighed. “Ciao, Oliver! Go, don’t you dare miss your train.”

As I was about to put the receiver down, I heard his voice call me again. “Oh, and Elio?”

“Yes?” I asked, arching an eyebrow. What now?

“I love you.”

And the bastard hung up.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! I love this so much... I might write a sequel! Be on the lookout for a little New Year present...
> 
> Happy Yuletide & Live Long and Prosper!


End file.
